The Good, the Bad, and the Dead

by Bruce Campbell

  He swallowed back the last of his bug juice. "And she'd get these ideas in her head. First it was mining and prospecting, then a few months ago, it was Mexico. She wanted to learn Spanish, to know all about Cortez and Santa Anna and every other Goddamn dago under the sun. Shit, I'm empty." Francis looked through the dirty bottle and smiled. "More for old Greyhill."

  Yale got up lest Jenson try to and walked to the bar, buying another bottle. He left it with the accountant and headed back to the hotel, where he hoped to be able to eat at last.

  He lost his appetite a few steps from the hotel, when he glanced across to the Sheriff's Office. The casket had been put on end and was leaning back against a wall, its lid on the ground. Amlin was there, roped so he wouldn't tip over. A placard around his neck read:

  THE KILLER OF SADIE GREYHILL

  Amlin's viscous eyes were open but unmoving, looking up at a dead sky Yale turned to see Jenson stumbling out of the saloon. The drunk froze in his steps when he saw Amlin' corpse. From only a few paces away, Yale saw the blood rush out of the man's face.

  "Sweet Mary-" His supplication ended as a sudden green complexion overtook his pallor and he bent over to vomit. Yale smelled the alcohol on the wind; Jenson was spewing whiskey with a bile chaser. When the convulsions ended, he stumbled off toward the mines office.

  When Yale looked back at the corpse, Amlin's eyes were looking right at him and a subtle, skeletal grin had spread across his desiccated face.

  •••

  By the time night came, Yale was sick of asking questions. He put up with a constant din of whispered Spanish insults and "no se" in order to find a few people who would talk, and he still wasn't much closer to finding out if he was helping a murderer or just a thief. There seemed little question that Amlin had robbed the mines office when the Rockies ship was docked at the bottom of the mesa. Several people had been in the office when he held it up and three or four others had seen him make his getaway on a stolen horse. Everyone figured he had slipped aboard the Rockies ship or one of the gambling ships that followed it. That all matched with what Amlin had told him.

  But, everyone in town also believed that he had killed Sadie. No one had witnessed it, of course, but they all knew it to be true. After all, Mister Jenson said so, or Seflora Mary up at the hacienda said so, or Jefe Mac said so. It had been a long day and now Yale was waiting in his room for a rotting partner who just might be a killer. His bones ached.

  Just when he was going to give up his watch, he heard movement on the balcony and saw a shadow cross the window. He took two steps forward before the thought hit his brain: The shadow was too big to be Cyrus Amlin.

  That's when the shotgun went off.

  ***

  The window exploded in a roar of glass and shot, and Yale dove to the floor. He wasn't quite fast enough, though, and some pellets ripped into his right side. He still drew his short-barreled Colt and fired twice to keep his attacker at bay. He barely heard the shots over the ringing in his ears.

  For a second, everything was still. Then he saw the shadow moving away, making a run for it. Yale ran to the window and exited gun first.

  A mountain of a man was at the end of the balcony, where a rear staircase led behind the hotel. The figure turned toward him, swinging his scattergun, and Yale fired his Peacemaker. The man stumbled, and for a second, he teetered on the edge of the balcony like a huge scarecrow in the wind. Then he was gone, falling backwards down the stairs. Yale crept to the end of the balcony, glancing over to get a look at his attacker.

  Joe Sierra was lying at the bottom of the stairs, illuminated by the lantern at the hotel's backdoor. A couple train whistles were blowing in Yale's ears, and his skull was throbbing a marching beat, but he could pretty much make out what had happened. A nickel-sized hole in the Mexican's forehead looked like a third eye, and the back of his head was decorating the stairs. It looked like the scattergun had taken Yale's shot and gone off during the fall, splitting open Joe Sierra's brainpan.

  The gun itself lay shattered, stock and all, atop the slick red mess of the big Mexican.

  Yale realized he had been gripping his side and withdrew his left hand, covered in blood. The screams in his ears suddenly stopped and everything went dark.

  ***

  "Joe probably got full of tequila and decided to even the score." Mac was leaning against the door frame of the barber shop's back room, playing with a silver pocket watch. "Lucky you weren't sleeping yet."

  "All the Mexican boys are wild these days. They've been that way since that Diego Cruz fella left town," put in Matthews, the old man who served as town doctor, barber, dentist and apothecary. He was stitching up the holes in Yale's side while the Deputy bit down on a leather strap. "That boy cried like a weasel kissing a coyote when I splinted his knee. You sure did a number on him, Mac."

  "Sierra and he were close, if'n I recall."

  Mac ignored Matthews. He snapped the watch shut and stuffed it into his vest pocket, leaving the silver chain dangling with a silver and blue band around it. "I'd recommend you keep to yourself from now on, Marshal."

  Before Yale could answer, Matthews pulled a stitch tight and he was biting and groaning. Mac turned and left.

  ***

  It was past noon the next day before Yale felt strong enough for the ride to the mansion. He approached the house from the west and hitched his rented Pinto to a tree. He walked toward the side entrance, avoiding Greyhill's office window, and he saw the maid Mary through the kitchen window. He made sure his star was showing, and entered. He made his way past the servants' stairs, walked down a short hall and turned into the kitchen. She jumped when he walked in.

  "Good gracious! What are ye doing here?" A matronly woman, Mary still clutched her bosom protectively like a Southern belle. "Mister Greyhill is upstairs-"

  "Actually, ma'am, I'd like to talk to you if I could. My name is Deputy Judah Yale." Yale took off his hat and wished he had left his gun behind. "I'm worried about Mister Greyhill. The loss of his daughter must have been quite a blow."

  "Yes," Mary hesitated, and Yale could almost hear her weighing whether or not to trust this dusty lawman in her kitchen. "She was all he had left."

  "Excuse me for asking, ma'am," Yale said lowering his eyes in somewhat feigned shyness, "but you saw it happen, didn't you?"

  "No." She tried to compose herself. "No, I heard the Shot and went running. The scoundrel had already fled. She... she was lying there and her father was over her..."

  Yale shifted gears. "It must have been difficult to raise a child in a mining town like this. Her father told me she was curious about the world."

  "Bless her soul. Sadie was raised among miners and frontiersmen, both as a little girl in Lost Angels and as a young woman here. She had their spirit." A single tear rolled down Mary's cheek and a sad calm came over her. "Her father wanted her to be delicate like her mother. He even brought her to a ball in Lost Angels to meet his friends. She only went so she could learn more about his business."

  "What did her father think?"

  "I'm afraid he never understood her, Mister Yale. He still sees her as his little girl and even insists I still put a silk bow on her door. She hated bows." She fought back concerned indignation with silent, deep breaths. "I... I have a great deal of work to do."

  "I'm most sorry, ma'am. I'll leave." Yale walked out of the kitchen and down the short corridor, but instead of going straight through the outside door, he turned up the back stairs to the second-floor hall.

  Glancing around a corner, he saw Nathaniel Greyhill's office door. He proceeded carefully the other way and found the door he was looking for, marked with a delicate silk bow around its handle. The latch opened easily and Yale entered Sadie Greyhill's rooms.

  Yale stepped into a large sitting room featuring a low divan and fine desk. A grainy daguerreotype of her father was propped on the desk, along with a blotter, a series of writing quills and a book stamped "The Spanish Language." Other books lined several s
ets of shelves nearby, announcing a staggering variety of topics. Two doors led from the room.

  The left door led to a dressing room lined with armoires. Inside, Yale found an assortment of old-fashioned gowns, and he concluded they had once belonged to Vivian Greyhill. He systematically pushed the dresses aside, looking for anything out of the ordinary. In the third armoire, he found a traveling case, and when he lifted it, it had a satisfying weight.

  He broke the fragile lock and found some women's clothes, far more practical than frilly. Wrapped in cloth to prevent spillage, he also found several writing pens and ink containers. Finally, there was a bound journal with several loose papers sticking out. On the first bound page, a delicate script announced:

  TRAVELS IN THE LANDS OF MEXICO

  The other papers were mostly official forms from the Greater Maze Rock Miner's Association (the so-called Rockies) and seemed to trace claims on Howling Bluff. From gaps in the dates, it seemed many papers were missing. Amidst these was also a lone personal note, written in Spanish on simple paper in a strong and practiced hand. Yale translated:

  My Love,

  I long to hold you once more in my arms. Soon we will be free of all our concerns. The documents you uncovered in Lost Angels will help us reclaim what is ours and allow us to be together at last.

  Remember: the north bridge at the time we agreed. Joe and I will be waiting.

  The letter was unsigned. Yale pocketed it, the papers, and journal, and moved to the other door, which led to Sadie's bedroom.

  A large four-post bed dominated the room, although some bookcases near the window competed for attention. A dresser with a mirror was also present and a splash of color on it caught Yale's eye. Silver jewelry was set out in a delicate pattern. The pieces obviously formed a set, all bearing the same vibrant blue stone. There was a bracelet, a matching pendant, and two earrings, but the piece Vivian Greyhill had worn for her portrait was nowhere to be found "The ring is missing." Mary was standing at the door. She obviously moved with the practiced silence of a servant. "If you wish to snoop around, Mister Yale, you should learn to close doors fully behind you."

  "What happened to the ring?"

  "She gave it away. A ring of beautiful lapis, brought from Europe by her mother, and she gave it up for her heart. She was so young, Mister Yale. It was much too feminine, but apparently her man-friend could just fit the ring on his little finger. She said it was a sign of their love that he couldn't take it off."

  "Do you know who this man was?"

  "No. She wouldn't tell me his name." Mary moved to the bed and straightened the already straight bedspread. "I saw that you found her bag, so you must know she was planning to leave."

  Yale made only a passing sound of affirmation. Mary had obviously been holding in too many secrets that desperately wanted out.

  "I found that bag on her bed after..." A pang of grief squeezed a tear out of one eye before she regained control. "Well, after that terrible night. She so wished to leave this place, Mister Yale. If only she had."

  Yale thought she might speak again, but sobs were starting to overtake her, and he left quietly He crept back down the hallway toward the stairs. He made his way outside, unhitched his horse and headed north at a fast pace. The gallop sent pangs of pain up his wounded side, but he made it to the northern edge of the mesa with the sky only mildly orange. Plenty of light still played over the wooden bridge that crossed the chasm he had seen the day before. The winds howled below like a drunken banshee.

  Yale moved along the cliff-edge to get a look under the bridge. The opposite rock face had a large lip some six or seven feet lower than the mesa top, and a pool of darkness filled the space between it and the bridge. You could hide a whole lot in darkness like that.

  Once across the bridge, he hitched his Pinto to the railing, shuffled down the sharp slope, and ducked under the wooden slats. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the deep, stuffy darkness, but a faint acrid smell told Yale that he had found what he was looking for. He knew that odor from being a soldier in Kansas and a lawman in the Maze. It was the smell of death.

  The body was deep in the darkness and had mostly been reduced to a skeleton by the heat, insects and buzzards. The man was on his back, his legs bent back at the knees and folded under him. His right arm was outstretched at an unnatural angle, and his right leg had a broken splint still loosely tied around putrefied flesh. The killing blow was clear and brutal. Only a small hole punched through the skull's forehead, but the entire backside of the man's head was pulverized. He had seen the gun up close when he died, probably on his knees begging for life, and Yale could imagine the agony of being made to plead on a shattered joint. The hand at the end of the outstretched right arm was missing its little finger, the bone sawed through, likely with a hunting knife.

  "Glad to meet you, Senor Cruz," Yale muttered.

  He climbed back up the incline and moved to his horse, still trying to make sense of his discovery. He only looked up when he heard the click of a Colt Walker being cocked.

  "You should have minded your business, Marshal," said Sheriff Tom MacPherson, holding the gun on Yale.

  Chapter Four It was full on night by the time they got back to the manor. Yale had his hands bound together by a rope tied to Mac's saddle. He was thirsty and tired and didn't know why he wasn't dead. When Mac brought his horse to the trough in front of the big house, Yale dunked his head into the slimy water to quench his parched throat.

  "None of that!" Mac pulled the rope hard, drawing Yale tightly up against the left side of the horse. Mac's boot, the stirrup, and the empty pommel holster all dug into Yale's skin, sending pain through his stitches. "You'll drink later."

  Mac hitched his horse and they headed to the house, Yale in the lead and the big Colt Walker in his back. His own gun, holster, and belt were on Mac's shoulder.

  They walked through the unlocked front door and headed for Nathaniel Greyhill's office. They passed Mary and Yale thought he saw sympathy in her eyes.

  Greyhill was seated behind his desk, as small and withered as ever. His bony hands were worrying his ghost rock paperweight while he stared at one of the leather chairs in the office. There, tied up with ropes, gagged, and stabbed through the heart with a fireplace poker, was the corpse of Cyrus Amlin.

  "Mac, thank goodness. Where did you find him?"

  "Up under the north bridge, just like I thought." Mac sat on the edge of the desk and kept his big gun pointed and ready to turn Yale into meat. "So, Marshal, how long you been working for this thing?"

  Yale looked at Amlin and saw the dead man blink. No more pretending, it seemed.

  "Come on, Yale, spit it out." Mac dropped Yale's belt on the desk. "Once Jenson told me he was being haunted I knew what was up. I was bringing this bag of maggots up here when I saw you riding north. You're lucky I had to store it away before coming after you."

  "About as lucky as Diego Cruz," Yale said.

  "That Mexican deserved what he got!" Greyhill exploded.

  "Hold up, Nate," Mac said casually. "You've never dealt with the walking dead, have ya Yale?"

  "Could be."

  "They're tricky sons-a-bitches. I bet he told you a whole big tale about fighting his way outta Hades 'cause he's an innocent man." Yale laughed like a forty-niner remembering the Gold Rush. "Sound familiar?"

  Yale saw Cyrus Amlin's bilious green eyes staring right at him. "Go on."

  "They're liars, Marshal, black spirits called up by God-knows-what. They don't wanna set anything right, they want to make trouble and watch how many people end up crying."

  The fatigue of the march across the mesa and Yale's own doubts about it all combined to make Mac's words hit home. They certainly made more sense than following a walking corpse.

  "I'd get rid of this beast, if I were you." Mac pointed his big Colt straight at Amlin's head, and the dead man's eyes went wide. "I've dealt with 'em before and the only sure way to keep 'em down is to blow out their whole head and
brains. Ain't no coming back from that."

  Yale almost wanted him to pull the trigger and to watch Cyrus Amlin's head blow open. Like Diego Cruz. Like-

  Then he knew.

  "I can see why you keep this guy around, Greyhill," Yale said, ignoring Mac. "Too bad it cost you your daughter."

  Both men looked at him agape, although anger was overtaking shock.

  "I mean I start asking questions and he gives Joe Sierra his shotgun to gun me down. When Sierra misses, he blows his head off with his pistol. Hell, I was right there and I still thought Sierra had blown himself to shit. That's impressive." He looked right at Mac then. "Sure the shotgun gets busted and so it's not in your holster anymore, and sure, now that I think about it, there was no way a scattergun made that hole in his head. He wouldn't have had a head left at all at that range. But my ears were ringing so much, I never noticed. That's good work."

  Yale was on a roll, the last few days all falling into place. "To think when you faced down those Mexicans that first day, I thought you were being damn careless. Shit, you had Sierra watching your back, knife at the ready. Too bad I drew on him."

  "What are you talking about?" Greyhill muttered.

  "He didn't tell you about murdering a Deputy US Marshal?" Yale grunted nonchalantly. "Don't worry about it none. He'll take care of it. Just like he did Diego Cruz. That greaser had to go, right? He was going to take the mines away from you and take Sadie away from Mac."

  "From him?" Nathaniel Greyhill's indignation overcame his wheeze and for the first time his voice was strong. "That Mexican took her from me. She never should have even met that thief or any other frontier ruffians."

  "Quiet down, Nate," Mac rumbled, "before you say something you'll regret."

  Yale kept at it, picking at the wound. "You don't know that Mac here wanted her for himself, Nate? Why'd you think he keeps your wife's ring around his watch-chain? Sadie gave it to Cruz and he took it from his corpse. Sort of sheds light on why he killed her, don't it?"